Upon leaving the province of Ubon
Ratchathani, Ãcariya Mun spent the next rainy season
retreat at the village of Ban Nong Lat in the
Warichabhum district of Sakon Nakhon province
accompanied by the many monks and novices under his
guidance. The lay men and women there reacted as if
a truly auspicious person had arrived. They were all
very excited – not in a frenzied way, but in an
anticipatory way – at the prospect of doing good and
abandoning evil. They abandoned their worship of
spirits and ghosts to pay homage to the Buddha,
Dhamma, and Sangha. At the end of the rains, Ãcariya
Mun went wandering again until he arrived in the
province of Udon Thani where he traveled to the
districts of Nong Bua Lamphu and Ban Pheu. He stayed
at the village of Ban Kho for the rains retreat
while spending the following rains in the Tha Bo
district of Nong Khai province. He remained
practicing for some time in both these provinces.

As mentioned previously, Ãcariya Mun
lived mostly in wilderness areas where villages were
spaced far apart. Since the countryside was
relatively unpopulated then, he could easily put the
teaching into practice. Virgin forests abounded,
full of great, tall trees which were still uncut.
Wild animals were everywhere. As soon as night fell,
their myriad calls could be heard echoing through
the forest. Listening to such sounds, one is carried
away by a sense of camaraderie and friendliness. The
natural sounds of wild animals are not a hindrance
to meditation practice, for they carry no specific
meaning. The same cannot be said for human sounds.
Be it chatting, singing, shouting, or laughing, the
specific meaning is immediately obvious; and it is
this significance that makes human sounds a
hindrance to meditation practice. Monks are
especially vulnerable to the sounds of the opposite
sex. If their samãdhi is not strong enough,
concentration can easily be destroyed. I must
apologize to women everywhere because my intention
here is not to criticize women in any way. It is the
unsuccessful meditator that I am addressing here so
that he may arouse mindfulness as an antidote to
counter these influences and not merely surrender
meekly to them. It’s possible that one reason monks
prefer to live in mountains and forests is that it
allows them to avoid such things in order to
relentlessly pursue the perfection of spiritual
qualities until they reach the ultimate goal of the
holy life. Ãcariya Mun enjoyed living in forests and
mountains right up until the day he passed away, a
preference which helped him to attain the Dhamma he
has so generously shared with all of us.

Ãcariya Mun said that if his
meditation practice were compared to an illness, it
would be a near-fatal one, since the training he
undertook resembled physical and mental torture.
There was hardly a single day when he could just
relax, look around, and enjoy himself as other monks
seemed to do. This was because the kilesas became
tangled up with his heart so quickly that he barely
had a chance to catch them. Should his mind wander
for only a moment, the kilesas immediately gave him
trouble. Once they had established a hold on his
heart, their grip became ever tighter until he found
it difficult to dislodge them. Consequently, he
could never let his guard down. He had to remain
totally alert, always ready to pounce on the kilesas,
so they couldn’t gain the strength to bind him into
submission. He practiced diligently in this manner
until he had gained sufficient contentment to be
able to relax somewhat. Only then did he develop the
strength of heart and ease of body necessary to
teach others. From that time forward – monks,
novices, and lay people from all over the Northeast
sought him out. Ãcariya Mun understood their
situation and was very sympathetic toward them all.
At certain times, so many people came to see him
that there wasn’t enough room for them to stay. He
also had to consider the safety of others, such as
the women and nuns who came to visit him. For in
those days, many tigers and other wild animals were
in the outlying areas, but there were very few
people.

Ãcariya Mun once stayed in a cave
near Ban Namee Nayung village in the Ban Pheu
district of Udon Thani province. Since many large
tigers frequented the area around the cave, it was
definitely not a safe place for visitors to remain
overnight. When visitors came, Ãcariya Mun had the
villagers build a very high bamboo platform – high
enough to be beyond the reach of any hungry tiger
which might try to pounce upon the sleeping person.
Ãcariya Mun forbade the visitors to come down to the
ground after dark, fearing that a tiger would carry
them off and devour them. He told them to carry up
containers for their toilet needs during the night.
With so many vicious tigers there at night, Ãcariya
Mun refused to allow visitors to stay long. He sent
them away after a few days. These tigers were not
afraid of people – especially not of women – and
would attack if given the opportunity. On some
nights when Ãcariya Mun was walking in meditation by
the light of candle lanterns, he saw a large tiger
boldly stalk a buffalo herd as it went past his
area. The tiger had no fear of Ãcariya Mun as he
paced back and forth. Sensing the tiger, the
buffaloes instinctively headed for the village.
Nevertheless, the tiger was still bold enough that
it continued to follow them, even while a monk
walked close by.

Monks who trained under Ãcariya Mun
had to be prepared for anything, including the
possibility of death, for danger was all around the
various places where they practiced. They also had
to give up any pride in their own self-worth and any
sense of superiority regarding their fellow monks,
thus allowing for a harmonious living situation as
if they were different limbs on the same body. Their
hearts then experienced a measure of contentment
and, untroubled by mental hindrances, their samãdhi
quickly developed. When a monk is constrained by
living under certain restrictions – for example,
living in a frightening place where the food is
limited and the basic requisites are scarce – his
mental activity tends to be supervised by
mindfulness, which continuously restricts the
thinking processes to the matter at hand. The citta
is usually able to attain samãdhi faster than would
normally be expected. Outside there is danger and
hardship; inside mindfulness is firmly in control.
In such circumstances the citta might be compared to
a prisoner who submits willingly to his fate. In
addition to these factors, the teacher is also there
to straighten him out should he go astray. The monk
who practices while hemmed in by hardship on all
sides will see an improvement in his citta that
exceeds all expectations.

Nighttime in the forest is a
frightening time, so a monk forces himself to go out
and do walking meditation to fight that fear. Who
will win and who will lose? If fear loses, then the
citta becomes courageous and ‘converges’ into a
state of calm. If the heart loses, then the only
thing that emerges is intense fear. The effect of
intense fear in such a situation is a sensation of
simultaneously being both hot and cold, of needing
to urinate and defecate, of feeling breathless and
being on the verge of death. The thing that
encourages fear is the sound of a tiger’s roar. The
sound of roaring may come from anywhere – from the
foot of the mountain, from up on the ridge, or from
out on the plains – but the monk will pay no
attention to the direction. He will think only: “A
tiger is coming here to devour me!” Walking all
alone in meditation and so afraid that he’s shaking
and useless, he is sure that it’s coming
specifically for him. Not considering the broad
terrain, it doesn’t occur to him that the tiger has
four feet and might just be going somewhere else.
His only thought is that the tiger is coming
straight for his tiny plot of land – straight for
this cowardly monk who is shaken by fear. Having
completely forgotten his meditation practice, he has
only one thought in mind which he repeats over and
over again like a mantra: “The tiger’s coming here,
the tiger’s coming here.” This negative train of
thought merely intensifies his fear. The Dhamma in
his heart is ready to disintegrate, and if,
perchance, the tiger really were to wander
accidentally into that place, he’d stand there
mindlessly scared stiff at best; and at worst,
something very unfortunate could happen.

It’s wrong to establish the citta
with such a negative attitude. The ensuing results
are bound to be harmful in some way. The correct
approach is to focus the citta firmly on some
aspects of Dhamma, either the recollection of death
or some other Dhamma theme. Under such
circumstances, one should never allow the mind to
focus outward to imagined external threats and then
bring those notions back in to deceive oneself.
Whatever happens, life or death, one’s attention
must be kept squarely on the meditation subject that
one normally uses. A citta having Dhamma as its
mainstay doesn’t lose its balance. Moreover, despite
experiencing intense fear the citta is clearly
strengthened, becoming courageous in a way that’s
amazing beyond description.

Ãcariya Mun taught his disciples that
becoming firmly established in the practice means
putting everything on the line – both body and mind.
Everything must be sacrificed except that aspect of
Dhamma which is the fundamental object of attention.
Whatever occurs, allow nature to take its course.
Everyone who is born must die – such is the nature
of this world. There’s no point in trying to resist
it. Truth can not be found by denying the natural
order of things. Ãcariya Mun taught that a monk must
be resolute and brave in the face of death. He was
particularly interested in having his disciples live
in isolated wilderness areas infested with wild
animals so that they could discover the virtues of
meditation. Such places encourage the development of
samãdhi and intuitive wisdom. Tigers can definitely
help to stimulate Dhamma in our hearts – especially
if we don’t stand in awe of the Lord Buddha because
we fail to trust his teaching, but we do stand in
awe of tigers because we are convinced how vicious
they can be. This conviction is a very effective aid
for corralling the mind and focusing it on Dhamma,
using fear as an incentive to meditate until Dhamma
arises within. Consequently, when that inner Dhamma
is finally realized, belief in the Lord Buddha and
the Dhamma he taught will arise naturally. At that
critical moment, when one is alone in the
wilderness, dormant faculties of samãdhi and wisdom
will be stirred into action. If there is nothing to
put pressure on the citta, it tends to become lazy
and amass kilesas until it can barely function. A
tiger can help to remove those kilesas which foster
such a lazy and easy-going attitude that we forget
ourselves and our own mortality. Once those
insidious defilements disappear, we feel a sense of
genuine relief whatever we do, for our hearts no
longer shoulder that heavy burden.

Ãcariya Mun emphasized that monks
should go to practice meditation in places that
arouse fear and avoid places that do not; otherwise,
they were unlikely to achieve any strange and
marvelous results. More than that, the kilesas might
well lead them so far astray that they end up losing
sight of the spiritual path, which would be
regrettable. He assured his monks that unless they
lived in an environment which forced them to focus
internally on themselves they would find it
difficult to attain a stable state of calm and their
meditation practice would suffer accordingly. On the
other hand, the results were bound to be good in
places where they were always alert to the
possibility of danger, since mindfulness – the
skillful means for directing the effort – was
inevitably close at hand. No one who genuinely hopes
to transcend dukkha should succumb to the fear of
death while living in what are imagined to be
frightening places – like remote wilderness areas.
When faced with a real crisis situation, the focus
of attention should be kept on Dhamma and not sent
outside of the sphere of one’s own body and mind,
which are the dwelling-place of Dhamma. Then the
meditator can expect to experience a pervading sense
of security and an inspired mental fortitude that
are incontrovertible. In any case, unless that
person’s kamma dictates that his time is up, he will
not die at that time – no matter what he thinks.

Ãcariya Mun said that his inspiration
for meditation was derived almost exclusively from
living in dangerous environments, which is why he
liked to teach his disciples to be resolute in
threatening situations. Instead of merely relying on
something vague like ‘inherent virtuous tendencies’
– which are usually more a convenient fiction than a
reality– in this way, they had a chance to realize
their aspirations in the shortest possible time.
Relying on the rather vague concept of virtuous
tendencies from the past is usually a sign of
weakness and resignation– an attitude more likely to
suppress mindfulness and wisdom than to promote
them.

To say a monk has confidence that
Dhamma is the basic guarantor of his life and
practice means that he sincerely hopes to live and
die by Dhamma. It is imperative that he not panic
under any circumstance. He must be brave enough to
accept death while practicing diligently in fearful
places. When a crisis looms – no matter how serious
it seems– mindfulness should be in continuous
control of his heart so that it stays steadfastly
firm and fully integrated with the object of
meditation. Suppose an elephant, a tiger, or a snake
threatens him: if he sincerely resolves to sacrifice
his life for the sake of Dhamma those things won’t
dare to cause him any harm. Having no fear of death,
he will experience the courageous feeling that he
can walk right up to those animals. Instead of
feeling threatened, he will feel deep within his
heart a profound friendship toward them which
dispels any sense of danger. As human beings we
possess Dhamma in our hearts, in a way that animals
do not. For this reason, our hearts exert a powerful
influence over animals of all types. It makes no
difference that animals are incapable of knowing
this fact; there exists in our hearts a mysterious
quality that has a soothing effect on them. This
quality is the potent, protective power of Dhamma
which softens their hearts to the point where they
don’t dare act threateningly. This mysterious power
of the heart is something experienced internally by
the individual. Others can be aware of it only if
they have special intuitive knowledge. Even though
Dhamma is taught and studied all over the world, it
still remains a mystery if the heart has yet to
attain any level of understanding in Dhamma. When
the heart and Dhamma truly become one, all doubts
concerning the heart and Dhamma disappear on their
own because the nature of the heart and the nature
of Dhamma share the same exquisite, subtle
qualities. Once that state is reached, it is correct
to say that the heart is Dhamma and Dhamma is the
heart. In other words, all contradictions cease once
the kilesas have been eliminated.

Normally the heart has become such an
extension of the kilesas that we are unaware of its
intrinsic value. This happens because the heart is
so thoroughly impregnated with kilesas that the two
become indistinguishable. The heart’s real value is
then obscured from view. If we allow this condition
to continue indefinitely because we are indifferent
about finding a solution, neither our hearts nor
Dhamma will have any actual value for us. Even were
we to be born and die hundreds of times, it would
simply be a matter of exchanging one set of dirty
clothes for another set of dirty clothes. No matter
how many times we change in and out of dirty clothes
we cannot escape the fact that we remain filthy.
Which is certainly very different from someone who
takes off his dirty clothes and exchanges them for
nice clean ones. Similarly, the interchange between
good and evil within the heart is an important
problem that each of us should take personal
responsibility for and investigate within ourselves.
No one else can carry this burden for us and so give
us peace of mind. It’s extremely important that each
and every one of us be aware that, in both the
present and the future, we alone are responsible
always for our own progress. The only exceptions are
those, like the Lord Buddha and the Arahant
disciples, who carefully developed themselves
spiritually until they attained a state of total
security. For them the job is completed, the
ultimate goal secure. These are the Noble
individuals that the rest of us take as our refuge,
providing us hope for the future. Even miscreants
who still understand the difference between right
and wrong will take the Buddha, Dhamma, and Sangha
as their refuge. They at least have enough sense to
feel some remorse. Just as good people and bad
people alike feel a natural dependence on their
parents, so people of all kinds instinctively look
to the Buddha as a dependable refuge.

ÃCARIYA MUN EMPLOYED many training
methods with his monks to ensure that they saw clear
results in their practice. Those who practiced with
unwavering faith in his instructions were able to
achieve such results to their own satisfaction. By
following the power of his example, they became
knowledgeable, respected teachers themselves. They
in turn have passed on these training methods to
their own disciples, so that they too can witness
for themselves, through their own efforts, that the
paths and fruits of the Buddha’s teaching are still
attainable today; that they have not completely
disappeared. When looking at the life he lived and
the methods he employed in training others, it is
fair to say that Ãcariya Mun followed a practice of
deprivation. He and his disciples lived in
conditions of virtual poverty in places where even
the basic necessities were lacking. The simple daily
requisites they depended on were usually in short
supply. Encountering such an uncertain existence,
those accustomed to living in carefree abundance
would probably be utterly dismayed. There being
nothing in this difficult lifestyle to attract them,
they would surely find it most disagreeable. But the
monks themselves, though they lived like prison
inmates, did so voluntarily for the sake of Dhamma.
They lived for Dhamma, and accepted the
inconvenience and hardship associated with its
practice. These conditions, which are seen as
torture by people who have never submitted to them,
were actually a convenient spiritual training ground
for the monks who practiced in this way. Due to
their determination to endure hardship and poverty
it is appropriate to call this the practice of
deprivation; for such living conditions naturally go
against the grain. Monks had to literally force
themselves to live in this way. During all their
normal daily activities, they were required to
resist the physical and mental pressure to simply
follow their natural inclinations.

Sometimes it was necessary to endure
days of fasting and hunger for the purpose of
accelerating the practice of meditation. These
periods, when monks abstain from food altogether
despite their hunger, are days of uninterrupted
dedication to the practice. The physical discomfort
at such times is obvious, but the purpose of
enduring hunger is to increase mental vigilance. In
truth, fasting is a very suitable method for certain
temperaments. Some types of people find that if they
eat food every day their bodies tend to be vigorous
but the mental endeavor – meditation– fails to
progress. Their minds remain sluggish, dull and
timid, so a solution is needed. One solution is to
try either reducing the intake of food each day or
going without food altogether, fasting – sometimes
for a few days, sometimes for a longer period – and
carefully observing all the while the method that
gives the best results. Once it becomes apparent
that a certain method is suitable, that method
should be pursued intensively. For instance, should
a monk discover that fasting for many days at a
stretch is suitable to his temperament, then it’s
imperative that he accept the necessity of following
that path. Though it may well be difficult, he must
put up with it because he inevitably wants to gain
the appropriate knowledge and skill to go beyond
dukkha.

A person whose temperament is suited
to long-term fasting will notice that the more he
fasts the more prominent and courageous his heart is
in confronting the various objects of the senses
that were once its enemies. His mental attitude is
bold, his focus sharp. While sitting in samãdhi his
heart can become so absorbed in Dhamma that it
forgets the time of day; for when the heart contacts
Dhamma there is no longer any concern with the
passage of time or pangs of hunger. At that time, he
is aware only of the delight experienced at that
level of Dhamma which he has achieved. In this frame
of mind, the conditions are right for catching up
with kilesas, such as laziness, complacency, and
restlessness, since they are inactive enough then
for the meditator to get the better of them for the
time being. If we hesitate, waiting around for a
more auspicious time to tackle them, the kilesas
will awaken first and give us more trouble. It’s
quite likely we’d be unable to handle them then. We
could easily end up being ‘elephants’ for the
kilesas, as they mount us, straddle our necks, and
beat us – our hearts – into submission. For in truth
our hearts have been the ‘elephants’ and the kilesas
the ‘mahouts’ for an infinitely long time. A
deep-rooted fear of this master makes us so
apprehensive that we never really dare to fight back
with the best of our abilities.

From the Buddha’s perspective, the
kilesas are the enemies of Dhamma; yet, from the
vantage point of the world, the kilesas are
considered our hearts’ inseparable companions. It is
incumbent upon us, who practice the Buddha’s
teaching, to battle the thoughts and deeds that are
known to be our enemies, so that we can survive
their onslaught, and thus become free of their
insidious control. On the other hand, those who are
satisfied to follow the kilesas have no choice but
to pamper them, dutifully obeying their every
command. The repercussions of such slavery are all
too obvious in the mental and emotional agitation
affecting those people and everyone around them.
Inevitably, the kilesas cause people to suffer in a
multitude of harmful ways, making it imperative for
someone sincerely caring about his own well-being to
fight back diligently using every available means.
If this means abstaining from eating food and
suffering accordingly, then so be it; one has no
regrets. If necessary, even life itself will be
sacrificed to honor the Buddha’s teaching, and the
kilesas will have no share in the triumph.

In his teachings, Ãcariya Mun
encouraged his monks to be courageous in their
efforts to transcend the dukkha oppressing their
hearts. He himself had thoroughly investigated the
kilesas and Dhamma, testing both in a most
comprehensive fashion before he finally saw the
results emerge clearly in his own heart. Only after
this attainment did he return to the Northeast to
teach the incomparable Dhamma that he then
understood so well.

ONE PROMINENT ASPECT of Ãcariya Mun’s
teaching, which he stressed continuously during his
career, was the Dhamma of the five powers:faith,
diligent effort, mindfulness, concentration, and
wisdom. He said the reason for emphasizing these
five factors was that a person who possessed them
would always have something worthwhile to count on,
no matter where he went; and, therefore, he could
always expect to make steady progress in his
practice. Ãcariya Mun separated them according to
their specific functions, using them to inspire an
indomitable spirit in his disciples. He gave them
his own heartfelt interpretation as follows:Saddhã
is faith in the Dhamma that the Lord Buddha
presented to the world. There’s no doubt that each
of us in this world is perfectly capable of
receiving the light of Dhamma – provided we practice
the way in earnest. We all accept the fact that we
will have to die some day. The key issue is: will we
die defeated by the cycle of kilesas and the cycle
of kamma and its results? Or, will we overcome them,
defeating them all before we die? No one wants to be
defeated. Even children who compete at sports are
keen on winning. So we should rouse ourselves and
not act as if defeated already. The defeated must
always endure suffering and anguish, accumulating so
much dukkha that they cannot find a way out. When
they do seek escape from their misery, the only
viable solution seems to be: It’s better to die.
Death under those conditions is precisely defeat at
the hands of one’s enemy. It is a result of piling
up so much dukkha inside that there’s no room for
anything else. Positive results cannot be gained
from abject defeat.

If we are to die victorious, like the
Lord Buddha and the Arahants, then we must practice
with the same faith, effort, and forbearance as they
did. We must be mindful in all our bodily and mental
activities, as they were. We must take our task very
seriously and not waver uncertainly like someone
facing a crisis without mindfulness to anchor him.
We should establish our hearts firmly in those
causes that give rise to the satisfactory results
that the Buddha himself attained. The sãsana【譯按：sãsana指教義。】
is the teaching of a great sage who taught people
that they too can develop wisdom in all its many
aspects. So we should reflect on what he taught. We
should not wallow in stupidity, living our whole
lives in ignorance. No one considers the word
‘stupid’ to be a compliment. Stupid people are no
use. Adults, children, even animals – if they are
stupid, they are hardly any use at all. So if we
remain stupid, who’s going to admire us for it? We
should all analyze this matter thoroughly to avoid
remaining bogged down in ignorance. Wallowing in
ignorance is not the way to overcome dukkha, and it
is definitely not becoming for a dhutanga monk– who
is expected to skillfully analyze everything.

This was Ãcariya Mun’s own personal
interpretation of the five powers. He used it
effectively in his own practice and taught it to his
disciples as well. It is excellent instruction for
inspiring mindfulness and wisdom, and an
uncompromising attitude towards practice. It is
highly suitable for dhutanga monks who are fully
prepared to compete for the ultimate victory in the
contest between Dhamma and the kilesas. This
ultimate attainment is the freedom of Nibbãna, the
long-wished-for supreme victory.